November 23rd, 2006


Wild Weather

Wind, wind, wind. More wind. Prairie wind. Ocean wind. Nor'easter wind.

Amazingly enough, the sound here is similar to the sound at home in high wind. There it's the wind in the pines. Here it's the wind and the ocean. It makes me want to be outdoors, my cheeks flushed, walking against the wind so that I can get pushed along by it on the way back. The sound that clears the cobwebs out of my head. The sound that roars around the house while the fire glows in the woodstoves. And occasional puffs of smoke, like fog, wrap themselves around the snug little house in the trees. I'm missing home. I'm wanting to go and clean and thow out junk and make the little house cozier still. Which makes me think of cobwebs again, the ones in my head. I'm wanting to go down to my cabin for the morning and light the little LP heater and listen to wind blowing around it. Dorothy. The house that lifts and flies off to somewhere new and strange and technicolor. The writing that does the same. Working until the voices of the characters, the places, come alive in technicolor of their own.

Frog Out
E scores!

Ocean Breezes

Got my walk in, despite the weather...2.5 to 3 miles around the island...out to Rock Beach and then down to the other side and back up and over the spine to 'home.'

Drizzle and damp and driving drops.
Feet soaked and pants soaked and down vest soaked and sweat-soaked and I felt alive and merged into all the wildness, my hair all wild and wavy and wickedly whipping about my cheeks.

Wind in the trees sounds like waves on the shore. Waves on the shore sound like jet planes taking off. The water sucks hungrily at the rocky beach as it goes back out. Swells crash back in again, driving spray high into the air against giant granite blocks and they suck at the smaller rocks that litter the beach as they're pulled back away, hissing frustration. Gusts blow me sideways and then I sneak between some houses and escape. Rain drives down at me, small pieces of hail bouncing on my gloves out on the open edge of the island. I have the shoreline to myself. I have the island to myself. Everyone else is huddled in their house where furnaces are warm and the air is dry. Gulls hang on the air motionless in the wind. I walk down by the wharf and the wind whistles eerily in the masts of boats in drydock. A car passes, going somewhere, out of my world.

My world is rain and wind and wildness and I am wild and wet and animal, moving with the gulls, hanging on the wind.

My shoes squish.
Time to head for my cozy, furnaced, winter den. Ah joy. The magic of man discovering fire.